


March 2019 Writing Challenge -- Dragon Age

by luciferwearsprada



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: I have no idea where this angst came from tbh, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-03-08
Packaged: 2019-11-08 16:32:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17984672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luciferwearsprada/pseuds/luciferwearsprada
Summary: My attempt to get back into writing by doing the March 2019 Writing Challenge! You can find the challengehere. This will be a collection of short lil Dragon Age oneshots inspired by the word of the day.





	1. March 1st: War

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't updated anything on AO3 since 2017 and generally lost my passion for writing for a bit, but through doing this I hope to regain it and maybe actually continue my WIPs or start (and finish) new ones.  
> As always, please do leave kudos/comments if you enjoy it, they fuel, motivate, and sustain me lmao

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kallian Tabris/Leliana

It was strange to hear her own name whispered as a legend. To sit in the back of a tavern, hood up, and hear the people around her occasionally mention things she did, things they thought she did, things she’d rather forget. Great achievements, of course, but also death. So much death. Too much death.

The Herald’s Rest isn’t as rowdy as most taverns she’s been in, especially those in dwarven cities, but it’s lively enough to not feel forced. Somewhere above her, someone shouts about a prank that was pulled on them. Laughter ensues. Kallian glances up but, of course, can’t see anything through the wood of the ceiling.

The bard begins to sing and Kallian flinches. _Oh, Grey Warden. What have you done?_

"You don’t know me," she murmurs to herself, quietly. A qunari sat at a nearby table glances at her. She looks back at him, unflinching. There’s a moment of confusion, then recognition, and then he’s sat at her table and gives her a grin.

"Rumors have it you’re dead."

"At least that means the darkspawn will be surprised when I kill them."

He laughs, heartily. "The name’s The Iron Bull. The _The_ is important."

She nods. "Kallian Tabris. But you know that."

"I do." The Iron Bull looks around the tavern. "Did you talk to Red?"

It takes a moment for Kallian to realize who he’s talking about, then she smiles softly. "Not yet. She was busy when I arrived, but… I assume she knows I’m here. She knows everything, doesn’t she?"

"More than I do, and that’s saying something."

A laugh, then she shakes her head. "It’s strange that people fear her."

"What was she like, back in the day?"

"Sweet. Very, very sweet. I felt like we were all a horrible influence on her. She talked to my dog like he was a baby and was more earnest in her intentions than anyone else I’ve ever met."

The door to the Herald’s Rest opens and an elven woman in simple clothing enters. Despite her unspectacular appearance, the atmosphere shifts and all attention goes to her. The Inquisitor.

"Red’s part of the war council now. They just had a meeting, I think, some important shit about where we’re moving next."

"Hm," Kallian says and barely a minute later she’s walking up the stairs, following the ravens’ caws.

Leliana stands at a desk, papers upon papers in front of her. She doesn’t look up when Kallian approaches her, but doesn’t flinch either as Kallian’s arm slides around her waist. Now that they’re next to each other, Kallian can see signs of fatigue and stress on Leliana’s face.

"I was surprised you did not write to let me know you are coming."

"No you weren’t." A playful smile tugs at Kallian’s lips. "You know I hate writing letters."

"That you do."

The next few moments are silent, save for the sounds of people walking around and below them.

"I hear the guy you’re fighting is a darkspawn. Or something similar."

"Something like that, yes."

"I’m good at killing darkspawn. The best, actually, that’s why they gave me a statue."

Leliana closes her eyes. "We had considered you for the position of inquisitor, but you chose to be elusive."

"And now, what? My help is no longer needed?" They’re not accusatory questions, not really.

"And now we have someone else to lead us into war." Something flickers in Leliana’s carefully calculated expression. "You hate war."

"Of course I do. It’s a weird thing to love, don’t you think?"

"I…" Another barely-there sign of vulnerability and Kallian almost doesn’t feel like she’s talking to a stranger. "I have grown to find comfort in war. It allows me some degree of control."

"Funny." Now Leliana finally turns to look at Kallian, to find the elven woman’s smile.

"Funny?"

"It’s funny that… for a second there, I almost recognized you again."

For the first time in years, Leliana has no answer.


	2. March 2nd: Crow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solona Amell/Zevran Arainai

When Zevran sleeps, when his features smooth out and that constant smirk fades away, he almost looks innocent. Just another elf with a pretty face. There is no sign of the scars he carries, both physical and mental, except for a small one close to his right eye. Solona presses a feather-like kiss to it and feels the flutter of Zevran’s lashes against her chin as he wakes up.

"What time is it," he mumbles, sleepily finding her arm and tugging on it in an attempt to pull her down onto the bed.

"Early," she answers. Her lips curve into a smile as she moves his hand away. "I have to leave soon."

It’s as if she splashed him with cold water. Zevran bolts up and stares at her with a fair amount of offense in his eyes. It’s justified, she knows. Solona sighs and slips her fingers into his long, golden hair, working out some of the tangles that come with his constant tossing and turning. Nightmares. Less than back during the Blight, less than after the fight with Taliesin, less than after the battle against the Archdemon where Solona got just a little too close to dying. They’re getting better and less frequent, especially now that so many of the higher-ups among the Crows have been taken care of. But nightmares, nonetheless.

"Where to this time?" Years ago, Zevran would’ve made his voice sound light and breezy, almost joking, to hide whatever he was feeling inside. He no longer hides from her, just as she is open about everything with him.

Solona bites her lip. It would be safer if she lied, if she had lied when he had first asked her about this a year ago. Safer for him, too. 

But she tells him anyway and he nods, understandingly. "It will bring you closer to curing yourself, amor. How could I disapprove?"

"But you disapprove of _something_."

"I wish I could join you." Again, he reaches out for her, and this time she doesn’t stop him. "I know it would be… dumb of me to join you. It is very dangerous and, really, none of my business. But…" Zevran takes a moment to search for the right words. "You came with me to Antiva. We walked through all of Ferelden together. Please, let me join you."

Ah, the puppy dog eyes. Solona could never say no. "I don’t know if Anders will want anyone else knowing where he is."

"You forget I am very charming and handsome. He will scold you for not having brought me along sooner, trust me." Zevran grins and, for a moment, all is right in the world.


	3. March 3rd: Beyond

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zora Adaar/Sera

Zora Adaar stood on her balcony and watched over Skyhold’s courtyard. There was nothing out of the ordinary that caught her attention, just the usual hustle and bustle of refugees, merchants, and soldiers. She didn’t look back into her room, not at the desk with stacks of letters that Josephine gave her, not the bookshelves that intimidated her, not the bed that was soft and warm and comfortable and so, so _strange_.

Everyone in her inner circle knew about her past, of course. Zora saw no reason to hide it. She’d told Bull about it with a sense of defensiveness, Dorian with sarcasm dripping from each word, and Sera in complete and utter honesty.

That last one had been the most terrifying.

There wasn’t anyone she didn’t get along with at all, not really. She’d expected to hate Solas, but his views on magic were comforting, even if he (like so many others) kept slipping up and calling her _qunari_. She hated that. At least Bull (and, to an extent, his Chargers) always got it right.

Zora was _vashoth_. She wanted nothing to do with the qun.

Varric had told her a story of a qunari mage he and Hawke had attempted to help. Zora had stared at him for a solid minute or so, then said, "And now you know why I hate that word."

Even Bull wasn’t qunari anymore. It had been an easy decision for Zora to save the Chargers. Krem was one of her closest friends at this point, and she didn’t want to work with people who would see her mouth stitched shut anyway.

"What about the templars," Bull had said when they drank together that evening. Back in Haven, back before it had all gone even more to shit than it already was, Zora had decided to go to the templars for help. Her reasons were unclear, even to herself. But Ser Barris had been kind and once everything was taken care of, Zora had insisted that the templars do not join as part of the order. She may have had difficulty trusting mages, for whatever reason, but templars reminded her far too much of the people her parents had warned her about.

And now she was here, on her balcony, in well-maintained leather clothing, with warm water and delicious food. With Josephine’s help, Zora wrote to her old mercenary band regularly to inform them of everything that had been happening. A lot of the letters she got were complaints about how she got to kill so many cool things. Especially dragons. They were _pissed_ about dragons.

Other times they praised her for moving up in the world and reminded her not to forget about where she came from and all of that. Those letters were the hardest to answer, because how was Zora supposed to explain that she _wasn’t_ happy and satisfied and proud of herself? She was the inquisitor now, she had everything. But she’d never wanted any of it.

The hero of a religion she didn’t believe in or care for. The savior of a world she no longer felt a part of.

Zora Adaar turned around and walked back inside, past her desk and bookshelves and bed. Down the stairs and past her throne, through the people whispering her name or title, with a nod to Varric as she slipped through the large doors. Down the stairs and across the courtyard, where Cassandra sliced up a practice dummy. Into the Herald’s Rest, past Maryden, another nod, this time to Krem. Up and around and through until Sera’s grin was the only thing she could see and she finally felt like she could breathe.


	4. March 4th: Doll

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mentions of character death, also Leandra's bad parenting
> 
> note: I accidentally titled this chapter May 4th instead of March oopsies, it's fixed now

The first place Marian goes to after she leaves Kirkwall is Lothering. She doesn’t expect to find anything there, no answers, no closure, but she goes anyway. Alone. Merrill decided to stay at the alienage, Isabela got on the next ship, Fenris is on his way to kill some magisters, Aveline’s cleaning up the mess, Varric is also around, Sebastian’s left to be all princely, and Anders… she doesn’t want to think about Anders right now. He’s somewhere, too.

But right now, as she approaches Lothering, it’s just her and Barkspawn. She remembers the letter that Miriam had sent to Leandra, years ago, explaining that the rebuilding of Lothering had failed, and that the soil was completely poisoned from the Blight. Marian doesn’t expect anything but rubble, but still she is disappointed when she sees how empty everything is.

There are some scattered building tools that were left, house frames that collapsed again, and the occasional bloodied or charred bit of memorabilia that no one returned to reclaim. Marian carefully steps over them, not wanting to destroy even more, until she reaches the Chantry. There, she takes a moment to breathe in, only to cough immediately after. Barkspawn whines. Though she has very few positive memories associated with the Chantry, it’s strange to see it reduced to ash and rubble. No corpses, of course, but Marian can imagine where people stood when they died.

The bridge is destroyed, too, the small river no longer a river. With careful yet determined steps, Marian continues on until she reaches the place her family’s house once stood. She finds the middle, where the living room used to be, and sits down on the cold ground. Barkspawn watches her closely.

"Is it bad of me that this doesn’t feel like home?" Marian asks him after a while. "I expected to come here and be… I don’t know, emotional about it. I haven’t seen this place since we fled, and now there’s nothing left, and there are so many memories attached to it, but…" A sigh leaves her lips and she shakes her head. "It was so much easier before the Blight. Before dad died, even. I didn’t have to be _Hawke_ , you know?"

Barkspawn doesn’t answer, of course, but he does trot up to her and rests his large head on her shoulder, as if to say _I’m here for you_.

Varric had said, once, when they were very drunk, that it was unfair of Leandra to put all the responsibilities and all the blame on Marian. They didn’t speak for a while after that. Now Marian wonders, sitting amongst the remains of her old home, thinking back on a childhood that ended too soon, if he was maybe right. The only emotion she can feel right now is guilt, and it’s amplified when she stretches out her legs and hits something with her foot. Upon closer inspection, she sees that it’s what used to be a doll, now barely recognizable.

It belonged to Bethany.

"Oh no, no, no, no…" Now she cries, finally, wrapping her arms around her dog and burying her face in his short fur, the doll in her lap. She cries in mourning, of course, mourning for her sister who died too soon, but she cries in guilt, too. She should’ve saved her. She should’ve saved all of them. Varric was right but so was her mother. Hawke will never be good enough.


	5. March 5th: Carnival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is probably the happiest thing I've written so far hskdjfghksdjfg  
> the inquisitor here is one from a story I've been working on, which is basically a retelling of inquisition but Nelya is only 15 and everyone more or less adopts her lmao if you like her character or this concept please do let me know, as I'm considering posting that story once it's done or once I feel good enough about it to share it with people!

"Come on, hurry up!" Nelya Lavellan seemed more like a bouncy ball than the inquisitor herself, but that was no surprise. Few would recognize a short, 15-year-old elven girl as the leader of this famed organization.

Not that that concerned her in any way; what was more important right now was a festival called _carnival_. It involved masks (the fun kind, not the Orlesian kind), costumes, glitter, singing, dancing, delicious food, and so, so much more. Clan Lavellan never had things like this.

Cassandra sighed heavily as she left Skyhold’s main building alongside Nelya, both of them wearing fancy, colorful clothing. No one else could have ever dared to make Cassandra wear something like this, but she found herself having a soft spot for the girl forced to carry the weight of the world on her shoulders.

Right here, right now, Nelya could be a child. There were no meetings to attend, no discussions of war, no judgement over criminals who had done things Nelya shouldn’t even have to imagine.

Instead, Nelya ran from food stand to food stand, eating every bit of candy she could find until Cassandra gently (but firmly) told her to stop, lest she spend the night throwing up. 

Dancing was next on Nelya’s list. She found Varric telling tales about Hawke yet again, grabbed his arm and dragged him into the crowd of dancers. Then Sera, who was just as overly enthusiastic as the inquisitor. The Iron Bull picked Nelya up and twirled her around, as did Blackwall, and even Vivienne humored Nelya with a dance.

Perhaps the best part of it was that few actually recognized her, and those that did complimented her dancing or made light-hearted jokes. No one tried to talk to her about anything political.

Then Nelya slipped away from the dancers and landed in front of Solas, whom she greeted with a wide grin.

"To what do I owe the honors, da’len?" he asked, amused.

"It’s time to dance!" All the sugar had made her more jittery than usual. "Stop being boring in your boring corner!"

Solas laughed and followed her. Sera whistled when she saw him and made a comment that caused Nelya to cackle loudly.

A hand on his shoulder made him flinch slightly, and he turned his head to see Cole looking at him curiously. "If you see her as family, why do you feel guilty?"


	6. March 6th: Crown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aiden Trevelyan/Dorian
> 
> Edit: I fucked up the naming of this chapter again wow sorry about that, it's fixed now

Aiden Trevelyan looked at his throne with narrowed eyes. Could he still call it _his_ now that Corypheus was defeated and the Inquisition was left with… well, with cleaning duty? Not that he found the job of judging people particularly fun, but the throne… he didn’t mind having a proper symbol, a proof that he was doing something right. They wouldn’t have given him a throne if he only ever did things wrong, would they?

Leliana walked past him and gave him a soft smile. He knew what it meant. Solas was still gone, there were a ton of people who wanted to talk to Aiden, and Dorian was going to leave for Tevinter.

He’d miss him. Hell, he already missed him.

Josephine and Leliana talked for a few moments, quietly. Then Josephine handed Aiden a letter and said something about a dinner event before the two women took their leave. Confused, Aiden opened the letter.

_Dearest Inquisitor,_

_Dorian may have mentioned my name in passing before, but allow me to introduce myself properly. My name is Maevaris Tilani._

Aiden had, in fact, heard that name before. She and Dorian had been in contact ever since his decision to go back to Tevinter. Apparently, she was one of the few magisters who wasn’t into slavery and horrible blood rituals. Which made her an important ally in Dorian’s quest to fix his homeland.

Maevaris explained parts of their plan in the letter, but never went into too many details. She did, however, mention that she knew exactly what it was like to be a living scandal, which made Aiden curious. Was she in the same situation as Dorian?

The last line on the letter, after her fancy signature, also caught the Inquisitor’s eye.

_P.S.: Give Varric my love and inform him that he is still my favorite cousin, despite the lack of letters I have received from him._

"And what would the great Inquisitor be reading so carefully?" Dorian’s teasing voice came from somewhere behind Aiden, who turned around to smile at the other man. "A love letter, perhaps?"

"Only almost," Aiden answered. "It’s from your friend, Maevaris."

Dorian raised an eyebrow. "And, what did she write?"

"Some information about what you two plan to do, just so that I _don’t worry about my lovely boyfriend too much_."

With a laugh, Dorian snatched the letter from Aiden’s hand. "Anything else?"

"That you write her paragraphs about me, apparently."

"How could I not? Bedding the Inquisitor is not something anyone can accomplish, much less having him profess his undying love."

"I _do_ love you."

"As do I, you." Once Dorian was done skimming the letter, he handed it back to Aiden and glanced up at the throne. "I still cannot believe you chose a throne from Par Vollen."

"What, it looks intimidating."

"To you, perhaps."

"Did you come here to steal my mail and critique my throne choices?"

"My love, I am always critiquing your choices. But no, actually, I wanted to ask you about your plans."

Aiden shrugged. "I’ll continue to be Inquisitor until no one wants me to be. We’ll go around closing the remaining rifts and taking care of other things, and then… who knows? Maybe I’ll follow Josie’s invitation and visit Antiva. Or I might go to Weisshaupt and check on Hawke. Or join the Chargers. I'm sure Bull would love bossing me around."

Even though Dorian didn’t have to ask, the words loud and unspoken between them, he opened his mouth. "Not Tevinter, then?"

"Dorian, I’m not a mage. How welcoming would your people be?"

"You're the Inquisitor. And Maevaris would want to meet you, I’m sure. Besides, I… don’t know how long I will be there. Years, maybe. Maybe longer."

"Not shorter?"

"No."

They had begun to walk, maybe subconsciously and maybe not, until they were both next to the throne. Slowly, Aiden sat down on it, then sighed. "You know who my favorite person to judge was? That avaar who threw goats at the walls. Also, the duchess in a box."

Dorian smiled and settled down on the throne as well. It was, after all, big enough for both of them.

"And what next?" Aiden teased, as if the previous exchange hadn’t happened. "A crown big enough to fit both of us at the same time?"

"Who knows, maybe when I rule Tevinter I will be gracious and make you my royal consort."

They shared a laugh and Aiden moved to rest his head on Dorian’s shoulder, relishing in the time they had left.


	7. March 7th: Panic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the #fucktevinter duo, Fenris/Garrett Hawke is hinted at

Krem is happy that the Chargers have something to do, even if their chief isn’t around to make bad puns or whatever it is he does. This time they’re taking care of whatever demons are left in Adamant (Bull would’ve complained the entire time anyway), which isn’t the most fun job out there but it lets them actually feel like they’re part of the Inquisition. Sometimes Krem feels more like he’s there to answer the Inquisitor’s questions about Bull or the Chargers.

They stop at a tavern on their way back to Adamant and rent out rooms for the night, sitting at a round table and laughing and drinking. Normally Krem doesn’t pay too much attention to other things on nights like this (that’s not his job), but tonight he gets distracted by a flash of white.

There’s an elf sat in a dark corner, slinked back just enough for someone less perceptive to miss him. His hair is white, as are the strange lines of tattoos he has inked into his skin. There is a defensive, calculating expression on his face, as if he expects someone to ambush him and has already mapped out every way out of this tavern.

Something about him is familiar to Krem, but he’s not sure what it is. Under the guise of going to get them more drinks (unnecessary because there are waiters, but the Chargers are too caught up in their stories to notice), he heads to the bar and stands just close enough to the mysterious elf to be able to hear him order some wine with a _Tevinter_ accent.

An elf from Tevinter. Now the constant wariness makes sense. When Krem tries to discreetly glance at the elf again, he is met with a dark, green, challenging glare. It’s now that he sees the greatsword.

"I am not—" Krem begins, but the elf stands up before he can finish. There is a dancer-like quality to him, the way he stands as if he’s ready to charge or run away at any moment. Krem is sure the elf can tell he’s from Tevinter as well. Not that that works in Krem’s favor; in fact, the elf seems all the more tense.

Again, Krem tries to speak, and this time the elf lets him finish an entire sentence. "I am not here for you."

"Prove it."

Their voices are low enough that no one pays much mind to them, though Krem can feel Skinner’s watching eyes.

"That group over there," Krem gestures to his rag-tag band of mercenaries, "is who I’m here with. We’re the Bull’s Chargers, we work for the Inquisition, we are not here for you."

The elf takes a step back before he glances over, as if worried that Krem would attack him in the middle of a tavern. His features change, somehow more relaxed and disapproving at the same time.

Someone else stands up, another mercenary probably, but this one doesn’t try to be subtle about anything. His steps are loud as he walks up to them and puts one hand on the elf’s shoulder.

Everything after that goes very, very quickly. Panic flares up in the elf’s eyes and he whirls around, his tattoos light up, and then the mercenary falls to the ground dead, his heart on the dirty floor next to him, and the elf’s right hand is covered in blood.

The tavern descends into chaos, with people screaming in fear or anger, and Krem notices the moment the elf decides to escape and follows him out the door. The Chargers are right behind him, of course, but once they’re outside Krem motions them to stay back. A large group of people won’t be helpful right now.

"I am from Tevinter," Krem says as he hurries after the elf, "as are you. I grew up one rank above slavery, the army sees me as a deserter, my father is a slave—"

The elf stops, this time, then turns around. His gaze is intense, as if he’s trying to look inside of Krem to find out the truth.

"My name is Cremisius Aclassi. Or Krem."

"Fenris," the elf says after a moment of hesitation, and now Krem realizes why he seems so familiar. _Of course_.

"You know Hawke."

"I do know Hawke."

"And Varric."

"Indeed."

"They’re at Skyhold, both of them. Hawke is preparing to leave to Weisshaupt to… I don’t know, talk to the Grey Wardens."

Fenris’ emotions show themselves in a very subtle way, Krem notices, a little twitch of his eyebrow or a slight change to the glint in his eyes. "When is he leaving."

"Soon, I think. Skyhold isn’t far from here, we’re on our way there right now." He looks over his shoulder towards the tavern, where the Chargers are engaged in a fight with more men wearing the same armor as the dead mercenary. "There is safety in numbers."

Fenris hesitates, and Krem searches through his pockets until he finds a letter from the Inquisitor herself, one that authorized them to use the Inquisition’s funds for things like tavern stay. Which, apparently, they just spent for nothing.

He hands it to Fenris as non-threateningly as he can. "You asked for proof."

There is a flicker of hesitation before Fenris takes it. His lips move slowly, silently, and Krem realizes that maybe this was a dumb move. "You— can you—"

Fenris looks up. "Hawke taught me how to read."

Krem nods. "Tevinter is fucked up."

There’s a hint of a smile on Fenris’ lips as he carefully finishes reading the letter, then hands it back to Krem. "Tevinter is the worst fucking place, and I lived in Kirkwall."

Krem laughs.


End file.
